


For the Love of an Acorn

by tranquilsea



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Hobbits, Bilbo is So Done, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Multi, Thorin Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tranquilsea/pseuds/tranquilsea
Summary: Thorin falls under the spell of gold, but a simple acorn is all it takes to shift the fate of Thorin and his Companions. OR Thorin falls under the spell of a lovable Hobbit.   Eventual Thorin x Bilbo if you read between the lines.





	1. The Halls of the Mountain King

This is my first official fanfic to be published on this site, so I appreciate any comments or feedback! It is not beta-ed, so there might be a few mistakes here or there. The Hobbit is written by the great Tolkien. This fanfic is just a small drabble that took a life of its own.

* * *

 

In the halls of his forefathers, Thorin walked. His hands trailed over the treasure of his people; the long spears for warriors now long dead, inlaid with cunning gold, the golden cup of his father, carven with birds and flowers crafted out of precious stones, the grass-green gems of the necklace of Girion. His fingers traced the work and handicraft of his people hidden within every single gem and precious item, and it seemed to him that within every object he could see the strokes of the hammer and anvil used to forge the precious metal and gems into objects of even greater beauty. There was an unnameable joy at the realization that within his grasp there lay the innumerable hoard of his grandfather, and it was  _his_.

As his feet guided him through the heaps of treasure, Thorin heard faintly the voices of his Companions from the halls beyond and above him. Though all had been befouled and blasted by the comings and goings of the Dragon, Thorin still recognized every balcony, every hall, for not in a thousand years would he forget his home. Beyond the great passageways and the dim beginnings of stairs, his Companions had found some respite in one of the old guardrooms dotted within the kingdom, and had begun to tuck into their rations of biscuit-like cram.

His eyes slid away, and returned to the glittering golden carpet beneath his feet. In his dwarven heart, he knew what he sought and desired – the Arkenstone. Thorin had bid his Companions to assist him in searching for the great jewel, but had conceded that attempting to search through the entire wealth of the mountain for one jewel, however marvellous, was folly. He could not speak fully of his desire for the great jewel, but it burned in him greater than the bliss gained from finally, after all the blood and suffering, to be once more home.

Thorin felt the surge of something at the thought- something indefinable, like the moment a raw piece of iron had been sculpted and drawn into something new, yet unnamed and fragile. He grasped, his hands clutching and clenching on the morsels of treasure around him, gaining strength against the weakness that assailed him.

"Thorin?" interrupted a soft voice.

Startled from his introspection, Thorin turned slightly, and felt the gold trickle from his fingers at the incongruent sight before him. A burgeoning smile tugged at his lips as he faced the intruder. Standing on one of the piles of gold was a creature, as tall one of the children of Men, gently looking at him. The look did more to heal him than any leech-craft could. Thorin allowed his smile grow at the sight of the friendly face framed under sun bleached curls.

"What do you think of my halls now, Burglar?" he asked, gesturing at the glistening expanse of the former Dragon's hoard set out before them.

"Will you not have some food, Thorin?" replied the creature instead. "You have been down here for hours."

"Long has the treasure and wealth of my people been befouled by the worm. Nor was that the only thing the foul beast destroyed and burnt." Seeing the Burglar's expression, Thorin pressed on. "I have not been brooding, Master Hobbit. I have merely been planning."

"Well, as any respectable Hobbit would tell you, you cannot be getting any 'planning' done with an empty stomach." With that pronouncement, the Burglar sat unceremoniously on the mound of treasure, and brought out of the depths of his fur-lined tunic a portion of cram, and began to chew on it with dodged determination.

Accepting a portion of the cram, Thorin grimaced as he bit into the hard biscuit, and not for the first time, wished for the honey-cakes made by Beorn. As his mouth worked around the cram, he pointed out in the distance one of the ruined stairs that worked its way down into the heart of the mounds of treasure.

"Before the dragon came, those stairs once lead to a balcony that overlooked these halls. If you stood and looked out before you, it appeared as if the gold assembled before you had transformed into the sunlit waters of the sea, myriad in colour and hue. If the leaf eaters had seen such a wonder, I have no doubt that they would have claimed the treasure as theirs, and stolen it, so the marvel would be theirs alone."

The Burglar continued munching industrially at his quickly vanishing portion of cram.

"The dragon did more than destroy our home, Master Hobbit. I am attempting to help you understand, what the treasure means to us Dwarves and the Company. It will restore my - our – home, and allow us to take back what is ours! We are tinkers and tailors and smiths no longer. We are restorers of a kingdom- a home. I will not have  _anything_  steal this away from me."

Thorin paused, and whispered, for the Burglar's ears alone; "I cannot, Bilbo." He pressed on. "No more will a stranger swindle of us of our pride, or plunder our names and replace them with 'Tinkerer' or 'Smith'."

Briefly, Thorin let his eyes rest on the Burglar's face, and the expression in the hobbit's bright eyes reinvigorated him more than any amount of gold. Illuminated by the flickering torchlight, the Hobbit's eyes had turned into honey-coloured shine of a precious  _taal lannd_ (*fire earth) and Thorin was suddenly enraptured by their lustre.

"Thorin!"

 _Mahal._  For the second time that day, Thorin was pulled away from his thoughts. His eyes guiltily snapped away from the Burglar's and fought the urge to scowl at Dwalin, the burly dwarf who had so rudely stolen his precious time with the Burglar.

"The Lake-men fleeing from the defeated Dragon have come to Dale, and are taking shelter in the ruined city. What would you like us to do, Thorin?"

Abruptly, the world wrenched away from him, and surrounding him all sides, blanketing him in a comforting embrace was the gold and treasure. Bilbo's eyes were looking fearfully into his own, and Thorin had given his word to the Burglar and his Company that no one would take what was his from him again. No one would steal what he had rightfully regained.

"Seal the gate," commanded Thorin in a low voice.

"Thorin!" protested the Burglar.

"Seal the gate," repeated Thorin, louder this time over the Hobbit's continued protests. Turning away from their judgmental gazes, he faced the assembled treasure. The feeling from earlier resurged, and he was looking out on the sea of gold, beautiful beyond sorrow or grief.

"Do as I command!" Thorin instructed.

There was quiet susurrus of shifting gold and uncertain feet.

"DO AS I COMMAND!" Thorin roared, and he was left alone with the hoard of gold to keep him company.

 


	2. The Dragon's Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hearing the news, Thorin instructs his Company to begin preparing his hard won Kingdom.

This is my first published fanfic, so please be gentle.

As always,  _The Hobbit_  is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien. I am just a humble interloper who has been inspired by his works.

* * *

"So much for joy, Thorin Oakenshield," he mocked himself as he cast aside a particularly beautiful engraved brooch in irritation. "The worm of Dread is slain and dead, and already thieves and robbers come knocking on my door to claim that which they have no right to!"

Struggling to rein his temper back under his control, Thorin could not stop the curses that dropped from his lips.

The soothing current of gold relived some of Thorin's ire, and he began to come back to himself. It was time to prepare the Mountain against the gathering hosts that the news of the death of the treasure's guardian had brought. Already the Men of the Lake had retreated to Dale and it was only a matter of time before they would claim a share of the spoils under the guise of charity. But Men like the Master of Lake-town would never be satisfied and like carrion birds would return to pick at more of his kingdom's wealth until they had pilfered all of it.

None of his gold would be carried off while he still breathed by such Men, Thorin thought, and hastened to see how the preparations went. Climbing one of the long stairs that turned into the wide and echoing ways above the treasure halls, Thorin hurried towards the Front Gate where his Companions would be sealing the rent and blackened remains of the Gate secure against any attacker. Even without the torch-light, he remembered the way to the Front Gate and so arrived there perhaps sooner than any of his Companions expected.

His sister-son, Kili, was carting one of the broken stones in a wooden cart to help fortify and repair the main entrance. Tools like this were to be found in plenty that the miners and quarries and builders of old had used; and at such work his Companions were very skilled. Good hearted lad that he was, Kili was pushing himself to follow Thorin's commands despite Kili's need for recuperation and rest after the Orc attack in Mirkwood.

If the inevitable oncoming battle didn't kill him, then his sister surely would as soon as she could get her hands around his throat, for Kili's long black hair hanged limply around his face, which was still pale and shone with sweat.

With a clatter, Kili released his grip on the wooden cart when he spied Thorin making his way towards the Front Gate. "Uncle!" he exclaimed, leaping around the broken masonry and the other bustling Companions who had not heard Thorin's approach.

They had begun to hoist up great blocks up stone to block the opening with rope pulleys and pallets.

"Up it goes!" exclaimed Bombur's voice as he and some of the other Companions lifted one of the destroyed statues to lie on top of the beginnings of a wall of stone that spanned across the gap made by the Dragon's flight.

"Dwalin said that you wished the Gate to be blocked up! Surely not, Uncle! The Lake-men, they have come to us in need! They have lost everything!" Kili demanded, his voice still hoarse from his illness.

"Do not tell me what they have lost," snarled Thorin in reply, remembering all too well the desolation and how low they had all sunk, to regain only the merest meagre portion of what had been lost the day the Worm had attacked.

At his outburst, the other dwarves seemed to pause uncertainly in their work.

"I want this fortress safe by sun-up," Thorin struggled to explain not just his anger at being questioned, but his desperate need to keep the precious treasure safe. "This mountain was hard won. I will not have it taken again."

He would guard the treasure- the history and work of his people, the heart of his restored kingdom with his last breath. Even as the world outside railed against the Mountain, and demanded what they had no right to, Thorin would wait in the Halls of his People, and gladly stand and guard what was now returned to him. His Companions and the Hobbit might protest his decision, but Thorin felt outrageously happy at the thought of merely returning to the precious sight of his cherished treasure. It was his alone, precious beyond reckoning.

Hadn't he earned it, unlike the detestable Men and Elves who thought they deserved some portion of it? Did he not deserve to revel in the fact that the wishes closest to his heart had finally come true? Every piece of gold and silver, every gem and priceless jewel was his.

"I will not have our home taken again," Thorin said, and his voice shook as he realised exactly what the mysterious feeling from earlier was.

_Dragon sickness._

The horror of it washed over Thorin, and for a moment it seemed he had been spared the madness and lust that infected him. Over and over again he could hear the cruel laughter of Smaug the Magnificent, dead and lying at the bottom of the Lake of Esagorath. He must be truly mad, just as his grandfather was, to hear so clearly the amusement of the greatest calamity of the Age and yet still wish for the very thing that doomed him.


	3. The Strength of Dwarrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is under the spell of gold, but when Bilbo brings forth a simple acorn, the spell begins to falter.

This is my first published fanfic, so please be gentle.

As always,  _The Hobbit_  is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien. I am just a humble interloper who has been inspired by his works.

* * *

Around Thorin were the familiar walls of his home, the dark grey-green stone carven by ancient hands. Before him remained the remains of what had once been the Front Gate to the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Lying crumbled under his feet were the smashed rocks and destroyed stones that had once imposed and awed any visitor that had come to marvel at the wealth of his Grandfather. Beyond the broken Gate was the valley, and there was the city of Dale alight with the torchlight from the Men who had fled the destruction of the Dragon. Thorin took comfort in these ordinary facts even while the Dragon mocked him for the secret thoughts that were running rampant in his delirious mind.

"Uncle," called his younger sister-son, softly, "they have lost everything. Will we not help them?"

_Do not tell me what they have lost_ , whispered the larger, more treacherous portion of Thorin's mind in reply.  _I know well enough their hardship,_  it continued, and Thorin was overwhelmed by the memories both beautiful and horrible that Erebor had awoken within him.

Well could he remember the taunting words of those who had heard the rumour of his and his people's sorry tale and sought to mock his fate with cruel words. "Those who have lived through dragon fire should rejoice," Thorin muttered in remembrance under his breath, and the words tasted like ash even as he spoke them. "They have much to be grateful for, those that have lived through dragon-fire."

Kili, sharp-eyed archer that he was, had caught Thorin's expression. The young dwarf edged nearer, his cart and work now fully abandoned, and he approached Thorin as if he was a deer that would flee at any sound.

"Uncle," his soft and young voice murmured. Yet his murmur was louder than the call for gold and retribution that screamed in Thorin's veins. Thorin tried to focus on Kili's soft intonation as he formed the syllables of Thorin's name, but it was like grasping at a sheer cliff face with nowhere to hold on to.

_You do not need them,_ said the Voice in his mind.  _Even these faithful Companions will betray you in the end. Even kin. You do not need him. Why should you, when here in these Halls there lies all that you desire? He will only take it from you, as others have done before._

The worse part of it was, Thorin believed it, much as he despised himself for it. He wanted to strike out against Kili, to end the potential threat before it became a definite threat. Already he could feel himself reach for a dagger hidden in the folds of his cloak, fingers tightening around the hilt while the Voice continued to drip poisoned honey in his ear.

So caught up was Thorin in the Voice's poisoned words, he did not realise that the Burglar had snuck on swift and silent feet and completely stole his breath away. Nestled in the Hobbit's small hands was an object Thorin thought he would never see in the desolate and barren wastes of Erebor. 'Tis was just a simple acorn, but Bilbo held it in his hands as if the acorn was worth more than his cherished smial back in the Shire, so long ago.

Dimly, he could hear the other Companions gently draw Kili away from him and the Hobbit.

"What is that? In your hand!" exclaimed Thorin as if the simple acorn would suddenly transform into the Arkenstone.

_How could the Burglar look at this acorn with such reverence when there was such work within his kingdom that would make even Thranduil Elven-King kneel in supplication?_

"It's … It's nothing," stammered the soft little Hobbit. But then suddenly, the Burglar shook his head, and a determined expression gleamed in his expressive eyes. "I picked it up in Beorn's garden." The Hobbit's flicked his eyes up to Thorin's, and he was no longer the pampered Hobbit who Thorin had met in the Shire. Here was one who deserved his place with the rest of Thorin's Companions.

"Thorin, I would like you to have it," smiled the Hobbit, and with a careful twist of his hand dropped the acorn into Thorin's amazed hands.

"Master Baggins, I cannot," breathed Thorin, the acorn cradled in his hands.

"Pfft," scolded the Hobbit lightly. "You need it more than me at the moment. In my worst moments, it helped remind me that despite all the spiders and wargs and misfortune, there was still good. I can only hope what heals a Hobbit's heart can heal a dwarf's!"

"Well, Master Hobbit! You are full of surprises!" burst in Bombur. The cubby dwarf patted his belly cheerfully, his great twisted beard mirroring his relieved grin. Thorin had quite forgotten the audience of his Company, his attention had been so captured by the Hobbit.

_He will betray you like all the others, no matter how fine his words or noble his heart. Even you, the great Thorin Oakenshield, crumbled under the weight of gold._

"First you join us on this Quest, and decide to riddle with a Dragon, and now you make our King see sense. We are in your debt indeed, Master Burglar!" resumed Bombur, drawing cheerful laughter from the rest of his Companions.

"I say some food and music is needed for such a momentous moment!" Bombur announced, and everyone shouted their agreement, Thorin included. With the acorn tucked safely in his grasp, all the assembled treasures lost their lustre, and Thorin longed for light and laughter after being in the Treasure Halls overlong.

The dwarves themselves brought forth harps and instruments regained from the hoard. They arranged themselves on what perches they could, and sat under the starlight of the Valley that streamed through the Gate. Thorin found himself burrowed between his protective sister-sons, and Fili handed him a harp.

Kili played a playful note from the flute he had seemingly magicked from nowhere. The cheeky look on his face was not one Thorin had seen since the Carrock, and it warmed Thorin's heart. Kili grinned at him, and Kili and Fili began to sing a far too familiar song:

_Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_

_Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!_

The rest of the dwarves laughed at Bilbo's offended look. "I will have you know that some of those plates were my Mother's best china," he said, tugging fussily at his frayed tunic. "I will also have you know, I've come up with a few verses, if you don't mind. I can't do justice to your dwarven singing, but I hope you enjoy my little ditty:

_No handkerchiefs and constant rain_

_Trolls that use you as a rag_

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!_

Bilbo's high voice faded away, and was immediately inundated with laughter and joking praise.

"Aye, that's not a bad attempt, laddie," chuckled Balin, who was sitting closest to the Hobbit. "We'll be having you singing proper Dwarvish songs with the rest of us by the time Fili is crowned King after Thorin."

Thorin, at ease, and comforted between Fili and Kili, felt himself unwind as the deep-throated singing of the dwarves echoed throughout the Front Gate. Gradually, his eyes began to close, and he felt himself fall asleep on Fili's broad shoulders.

Thorin woke up under the stars.

_They have betrayed you. Did you not see them laughing as they plotted how they would find the Arkenstone and take it from you?_

Ignoring the insidious Voice, Thorin quietly rose from the makeshift bed that had been made from him. Despite sleeping on the cold stone floor, and the rumpled clocks of his Companions, Thorin felt refreshed. Here, away from the treasure and the stink of the Dragon's infestation, there was fresh air, and moonlight. It seemed easier than before to disregard the Voice and remain himself. Tucked safely away in one of his deep pockets he had the Hobbit's acorn, and his fingers touched it for reassurance.

He looked about the moonlit Porch. At either side of his makeshift bed, loyal as ever, were the snoring Fili and Kili. The brothers 'Ri as ever were sleeping beside each other, the young Ori squeezed safely in the middle of the brotherly pile. Bombur, Bifur and Bofur were also similarly arranged, just as they would be if they were on the Road again. Balin had also fallen asleep near the heat of the other dwarves, and his friend's ancient face looked peaceful. Dwalin, stout hearted dwarf that he was, slept alone, nearest to the broken gate, so that if any attack should surprise the Company, he could leap up in defence.

_But where was the thirteenth Companion?_  Thorin wondered, and spied the Burglar perched on top of the half-built barricade. The Hobbit's short legs swung back and forth, his bare feet tapping a rhythm as he contendingly gazed out on the moonlit Valley.

"Good evening," greeted the Burglar, as Thorin clambered up easily beside him.

"Yes," replied Thorin, understanding the Hobbit's meaning, and sat beside him. They sat quietly together, looking out towards Dale. He took out the acorn, and rolled it in his palm.

"Thorin," Bilbo began, and seemed to falter. "Thorin, I'm sorry," he apologized, and drew something out from his tunic, and placed it between them on the plain black rock of the Gate.

The Arkenstone.

Thorin stared at the great jewel.

"The Arkenstone!" he exclaimed, and thought he was still half-dreaming. A globe with a thousand facets, shining like silver in firelight, lay innocently beside him. Like rain upon the Moon it was, and Thorin had never seen something so beautiful.

_He has betrayed you, Thorin. As I said he would_ , said the Voice, triumphant.


	4. The Name of the Betrayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo shows Thorin the Arkenstone, and the two have an enlightening conversation.

This is my first published fanfic, so please be gentle.

As always,  _The Hobbit_  is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien. I am just a humble interloper who has been inspired by his works.

* * *

The Arkenstone gleamed in the night. It sat, untouched by Thorin, between him and the Burglar who had stolen it, more magnificent than Thorin had remembered it. The stone glowed with a soft inner light, like the gleam of an unsheathed sword. Its splendid colour was deeper and purer than the clearest lake, and in its depths, was the beating heart of the Mountain.

"How came you by this?" Thorin croaked, once he had managed to find his voice. He could not bear to drag his eyes away from the exquisite jewel-stone now that it lay so close and yet so far.

"How came you by the Heirloom of my people?!" Thorin demanded of the Burglar. "A fourteenth share was what was promised, and that would have been gladly given for all that you have done for us. Yet even the princely share was not enough for you, Master Burglar, so you took instead the greatest treasure of them all!"

"Well done, Master Burglar! You must have been laughing to yourself, with the Arkenstone hidden carefully in your pocket, as we Dwarves searched in vain. Perhaps it pleased you to steal my words and confessions from my mouth! Indeed, Gandalf made his recommendation well, for in your nimble hands you hold a King and his Crown," said Thorin.

"You're welcome!" shouted back the impertinent Burglar. "Yes, I stole the Arkenstone from the Dragon! Yes, I kept it hidden from the Company, and stole your Crown and thus your King-ship away from you! You're welcome! A Burglar has his feelings, I'll have you know, and it was a hard task not to throw that useless bauble down the nearest mineshaft I could find!"

"I owe you no thanks, Burglar," growled Thorin in anger. "By the beard of Durin! You miserable Hobbit! I owe you only curses for stealing my father's stone." Every bone seemed to vibrate with rage, and it was useless to sit here, on the half-built barricade, when he could easily reach towards the Burglar and cast him downwards.

 _A fit punishment for one whom has betrayed you in such a manner_ , crooned the Voice.

A fraction of his temper lessened when he felt the Burglar trembling fearfully beside him. Thorin clenched his fists tightly- tighter and tighter until his nails were biting into his skin. Concentrating on the sharp pain instead of the awful refrain that was chanting inside his veins like the thud of a hammer on hot iron made the world return to a shade of normalcy.

"You may curse me as many times as you like," the Burglar spat the words like they were the greatest of insults, as if he had not bewitched too by the glorious work of his people, as if he had not immediately grasped the Arkenstone for his own. "What can it do, but cause heart-ache and pain?!"

The burglar continued, the words he should have said unspoken, heavy in the night air. Thorin heard it clear and loud none the less- treachery, by his kin, by his Companions.

_If he betrayed you, then why not the others in your company?_

The Burglar paused, and as if he too could hear the Dragon's sibilant whispers, said: "Your own treachery, Thorin! You have betrayed your people by placing the importance of gold and silver over the welfare of your people. Your people do not need priceless heirlooms- they do not need a miser for a king, who counts only the coin in his purse- they need a home!"

The Hobbit's voice in anger, gesturing to the broken, desolate Erebor, and to the still slumbering Companions. "We did not journey with you, King Under the Mountain, to return your  _wealth_."

"My treachery?!" repeated Thorin incredulously. "My treachery?! I was not the one who stole the Heirloom of my People-" he jabbed angrily at the Arkenstone, which lay innocently, sparkling faintly between them. "I am no traitor, Burglar," Thorin snarled.

The Burglar only nodded sadly. "Deny it, but you know the words I speak are true. I may be a miserable Hobbit who has no love for what a dwarrow may hold dear, and the one who stole Arkenstone, but the crimes I committed were for you!"

"That is a novel form of defence, Burglar! You speak of truth- I know the truth! Such a jewel can tempt even a lowly grocer like yourself, and you desired it for your own," mocked Thorin.

"I was tempted," admitted the Burglar, unfazed by Thorin's accusation. Thorin's gathering rage was suddenly de-railed, and he could only gape at the strange little creature sitting beside him. The Burglar continued, in a matter a fact tone, "Even a grocer like me can see the beauty of the Arkenstone."

_And he claims he did not steal it for himself._

"I did steal it for you," admonished the Burglar gently. The tender look on the Burglar's face left Thorin dumbstruck.

 _He lies_ , sang the voice of the Dragon.  _He will take everything you hold dear. He has already stolen your claim to the throne. Do not trust the little Thief._

"Why?" Thorin asked quietly, despite the Dragon's continued refrain breathing softly in his ear like a prayer.

_Do not trust the Thief._

The Burglar turned to face him fully. The moonlight fell on his soft curls, and round smooth un-dwarven face, and Thorin was struck suddenly with how much it had altered. At the start of the Quest, the Burglar was like chalk, crumbling and weak under the slightest trial. Now, the journey had changed the halfling's face and revealed the hidden flint, strong and hard inside the chalk. Perhaps after the trials and dangers they faced in their successful attempt to regain Erebor, some dwarrow-ness had rubbed off on the Burglar.

"So that you had a home once more," murmured the Hobbit in that simple, polite way of his.

It was not, Thorin mused, the most logical explanation. But then, what was logic to a Burglar-Hobbit? Probably any decision that meant they could have a second breakfast instead of just one, or putting handkerchiefs above useful supplies for a long journey.

He glanced at the Arkenstone, still lying beside him, glinting beside him like a fallen star. Deep in the heart of its many faceted surface was enchanting light of a slumbering forge, calling to Thorin. Its call was different from the deep, lolling intonation of the Dragon with its promises of revenge and retribution. Its voice was like a dwarrowdem's, soft and enticing with its assurances. It spoke of eternity and possession and had had it been only a day before, Thorin would have fallen for its enchanting falsehoods.

 _Calls to you? It has claimed you_ , crowed the Voice.  _Not even the Burglar can steal you from your fate now, Thorin, son of Thrain._

Thorin reached out for the Arkenstone, and weighed it carefully in his hands. Then, with as much strength as he could muster, he put it down, back between him and the Burglar. He had no desire to listen for any longer to either the Dragon or the Arkenstone, and longed suddenly to cast the hateful thing into the River Running below. Thorin wished that the ill that followed them to Erebor could be taken far, far away by the waters of the river.

The mere effort drained Thorin, and he found himself slumped painfully against the Burglar's too thin shoulder. Despite his deep, and recent slumber, exhaustion had set in once more, worse than before, so that even the exertion of keeping upright was too much for Thorin's straining muscles. He should have felt shame at his sudden weakness, but he was so bone weary that the only emotion he felt was a quiet joy, as if he had been working on some smith-work and after hours of toil had begun to see the glimmering fruit of his effort.

"Thorin," apologized the Burglar, his warm breath ghosting against Thorin's chest as he politely detangled himself from Thorin's pseudo-embrace. The Burglar seemed just as relieved at Thorin's actions with the Arkenstone, yet here the Burglar was apologizing, of all things, for the grief Thorin had caused.

"Do not apologize," Thorin replied gruffly, as he shifted painfully back into an upright position. In the end, all that occurred since their departure from Lake Town had been his fault. In the end, he had succumbed to the gold lust that had cursed his grandsire. Mere hours on entering the Mountain and claiming the throne, Thorin had become all that he had feared, and worse. A hobbit from the kindly West had beaten the Dragon and its enchantment where he had failed. What could he do now, but trust in the Burglar's instincts?

The Burglar gave Thorin one of his quiet smiles, and stuck his hands into his tattered waist coat pocket. "I will keep it safe and secret for now," the Burglar promised, "and when this muddle is all sorted, I'll return it where it belongs. Besides, I think it is time for us to get back."

With that, he snuck the gleaming Arkenstone into his vest, as if it were some apples he was stealing and not the Crown-Jewel of Erebor, and began to clamber back down the half-wall barricade.

Thorin sighed, pushing his weariness aside. Down he went, making sure to help the Burglar down some of the steps that were too large for his shorter legs. Their hands brushed against each other's, reassuring in the half-light of the moon. When they reached the camp at the bottom of the Gate, Thorin held the Burglar's hand, examining the many nicks and calluses caused by the journey and the after-effects of the Dragon's departure. Excusing his impropriety as he bowed, in formal dwarf style to the Burglar.

"Thorin Oakenshield, at your service," he intoned.

"Bilbo Baggins at yours," replied Bilbo, his eyebrows quirking in surprised humour at Thorin's sudden formality. If Thorin judged rightly by the smile tucked away in the corner of Bilbo's eyes, Bilbo was secretly pleased by Thorin's actions and the apology underlying the formal re-introduction.

Releasing Bilbo's hand, Thorin instructed him to wake the other Companions and begin to make use of what food and drink they had left in their pack. His loyal and beloved Companions would need the energy to attempt what he had planned, but Thorin no longer doubted them. There would be time to doubt later, but now, it was time to prepare for the strike that would inevitably come.

With quick, economic movements, he made his way to Dwalin's spot nearby the Gate. The ever-watchful Dwarf was already awake, packing away his make-shift bed with practiced ease. Stashing away an array of weapons he had requisitioned from the armoury, Dwalin snapped to attention as best as he could in borrowed gear and little sleep as Thorin approached.

"Any news, Thorin?" asked Dwalin.

"No," replied Thorin simply, despite the suspicious look on Dwalin's face as he glanced up from his packing.

"I saw you atop the Gate with the Burglar," said Dwalin, setting aside the pack on the floor. Stomping closer to Thorin, Dwalin scrutinised Thorin, his hand resting lightly across one of butt of a half-mooned axe strapped to a belt across his waist. The former guard's stance was on edge, defensive, the grip on the handle too tight. The other dwarf was too close, intimidating, placing himself between Thorin, and Bilbo, now waking up Fili and Kili.

Dwalin's protectiveness made it clear that he thought Thorin was still bewitched by the Dragon, and that his interest in Bilbo was caused by the enchantment. The former guard was prepared to protect his King, by shielding Bilbo from Thorin's madness. Thorin felt a swell of love for his loyal and stalwart friend. Catching Thorin's smile, Dwalin remained where he was, waiting for Thorin to explain himself.

"Bilbo," corrected Thorin firmly. There was no question whether Dwalin understood Thorin's full meaning, after being friends and companions for so long. On moments like these, they could speak with looks alone.

_I have not called him by his name since I fell under the Dragon sickness. He has not just stolen the Kingdom, but its King back from the clutches of a Dragon. Atop the Gate, he helped me realise the ills I have committed to you, and to my people, by placing treasure above all. He has earned his name, and I give it gladly._

With a little laugh, Dwalin removed his hand from his axe, and nodded, his stance relaxing. Moving to Thorin's side, he asked: "What would you have us do, Thorin?"

Thorin merely smiled in reply.


	5. A King Once More

This is my first published fanfic, so please be gentle.

As always,  _The Hobbit_  is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien. I am just a humble interloper who has been inspired by his works.

* * *

Embraced once more in the welcoming darkness of the Heart of the Mountain proper, Thorin’s eyes caught details he had previously overlooked before. The immense statues that had once stood guard over the great treasure hoard of Thror had been scored by the Dragon’s claws, the jewelled eyes ripped from their setting. Looking closely at his Halls laid out before him, he saw, for the first time, the full extent of the Dragon’s befoulment upon his home. Thorin’s nose wrinkled at the musty stench, and felt his heart drop at the sheer amount of work that lay upon him and his kin. 

“If those thieves desire the treasure of my people so much, they are welcome to it.” muttered Thorin. “After cleansing the gems and gold and assortment of priceless heirlooms for several shifts, they’ll never want to be near another piece of treasure again.”

Behind him came the gentle, bell-like laughter of the Hobbit. Somehow the light-footed Hobbit had managed to follow Thorin without once raising Thorin’s suspicions. Although Thorin had more than once witnessed Bilbo’s ability to suddenly disappear, it still never failed to surprise him. Seeing Thorin’s dumbfounded expression made Bilbo chuckle softly once more. 

“I take it that you did not think about the repercussions of having a Dragon as a tenant either,” Bilbo snickered as Thorin almost scoffed in indignation. 

“I am aware of the responsibilities that await me as King of Erebor,” replied Thorin, attempting to resume his haughty tone and demeanour he had worn like his oaken shield for much of the Quest. But to his ears it sounded gentler, like stone that had been reshaped and smoothed by the waters of a peaceful stream. It sounded almost as it had done when he was a young dwarrow, before the dread Wyrm had tainted his heart.

Again, there was Bilbo’s soft chuckle, a familiar mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he lent conspiratorially towards Thorin. “Let’s not tell the boys, shall we? They are far too excited about all the rescuing, battles, and princesses that are sure to happen as Princes of Erebor.”

“They’d be halfway back to the Shire if they realised the truth,” Thorin jokingly admitted. “In fact, I am almost tempted to return myself now the full extent of the obligations that await me as monarch have been made clear to me.”

“Breakfast is at nine,” replied Bilbo, tucking his hands into the pockets of what remained of his waistcoat. It was a habit that he had picked up on the long journey, and a fair indicator of Bilbo’s mood. Judging by the way the Hobbit’s fingers were tapping a cheerful rhythm against the waistcoat’s much abused pockets, he was content. “Talking of the boys, they sent me to check on you.” 

“For Mahal’s sake,” Thorin grumbled affectionally. Trust his interfering sister-sons to send Bilbo to check on him. “I am well.”  
It was clear from Bilbo’s look that he did not quite believe Thorin’s word. Still tired and reeling from the events of the past few hours, he probably looked like he belonged more on his sick bed than back in the heart of the Mountain. Despite this, he truly did feel better than he had since he had first set foot back inside his ancestral home. 

Unlike mere hours before, where he had spent hours enraptured in memories of past glories and riches, he had returned with purpose to the treasure hall. As a dwarf, he could not help but admire some of the handicraft and history in every piece, but he was no longer consumed by it. He had spied earlier some items which might help his plan.

He held up one such item to Bilbo. “I found something that might prove useful if it comes to battle,” he said as he unfurled the item before Bilbo’s eyes.  
The hobbit stared at the shimmering coat of mithril with what Thorin could only presume was astonishment. Even someone who claimed to have no love for the majesty of the earth’s riches could not be un-moved by the splendid coat of mail. He smirked a little in Dwarvish triumph.

“I’m sure it will look lovely hanging from my window, Thorin, but I would despair to think my neighbours would think of me when they hear I went to battle outfitted in dwarven household linens,” teased Bilbo, laughing a little at Thorin’s stricken face.  
Glowering at the snickering hobbit, Thorin thrust the mithril coat at the hobbit. “Just put the damn thing on, infernal little hobbit.”

“As you wish, your kingliness,” grinned Bilbo as he gave a cheeky bow. The wondrous coat was quickly hidden underneath the awful shirt and waistcoat Bilbo had worn since Lake Town. No-one except Thorin would know that the hobbit was wearing the mithril coat. Knowing that Bilbo was somewhat protected relieved Thorin a little, but he remained anxious as much of what he planned hinged on the hobbit.

“I have flown on Eagles, battled Spiders, rescued the Company, and riddled with Dragons,” said Bilbo, as if reading Thorin’s mind. “Trust me.”  
He had already come too far to stop trusting in the hobbit now. He had already handed over the Heart of the Mountain, and had only received an acorn in exchange. He found the acorn nestled in the many hidden pockets of his gear, and knew in his secret, dwarvish heart, that the small acorn was worth more than the assembled treasures of the Mountain.

His plan, such as it was, was not one a dwarf would have conceived. 

Fili, his heir and sister-son, would return to Dale, with Bilbo and Balin to treat with the Elves and the Men who had camped there. He himself would stay in Erebor with the remaining members of the Company, and prepare for the worst. Thorin hoped that by allowing Fili to negotiate with the Elves instead of himself would minimize the mutual distrust and hatred between the two opposing camps. 

But even then, there was too much history, too much pain, to think that a peaceful negotiation would ever be possible. The negotiation would hinge on the treasure, and how it would be portioned out between the Elves, Men, and Dwarves. Thorin knew in his bone that an alliance bound by cursed gold and treasure was likely to end in disaster. 

But what else did Dwarves have to offer the Men and Elves? Every other race knew that they held gold and jewels above all else. What did they have to show as a wergild beyond the countless treasures in the Mountain?

It was at this point that Bilbo would offer up the acorn. And tell the assembled Lords, Kings, and Wizards in his simple Hobbit way how it reminded him that there was still Good in the world. If Bilbo could cure a cranky old dwarf like him of his stubbornness, then there was no doubt that Bilbo could not do the same to a group of stupid Men and Elves. 

Thorin nodded, and led them out to the Gate far above.


End file.
